


Save The Last Dance

by Oricalle



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, CW: vomit, Canon Divergence, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Mentions Of Prim's Backstory, Non-Canonical Character Death, Revenge, Spoilers for Primrose Azelhart's Chapter 3, Team as Family, i'm gonna hit simeon with a sledgehammer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 03:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oricalle/pseuds/Oricalle
Summary: The beast with nothing left to lose is twofold in ferocity.H'aanit's wrath outshines them all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight AU where the end of Prim's C3 is fatal.

Primrose was the picture of grace, and H’aanit never thought she would stop finding something about her beautiful. The way her sun-kissed skin highlighted the dimples of her cheeks and made her rare true smiles feel like treasures, or the way her bracelets and anklets played a familiar chime during long walks down rugged paths, or even the way she was so resistant to affection until she knew you, and then she loved hugs and gentle smiles. H’aanit had never met anyone like the dancer, and she couldn’t help but fall deeply in love. That too, she thought, was beautiful, until a cold day in Noblecourt.

Prim (a name she had only so recently become comfortable with) had slain the second of the three men who murdered her father, and H’aanit was tasked with hiding the body outside of the monster’s manse. Ophilia accompanied her, and she knew Therion was busy trying to case an escape route. Over the months of companionship, all of her allies had learned to work as a team. For someone as solitary as H’aanit, that was a welcome surprise.

Ophilia was the first to notice, dropping her shovel and glancing over her shoulder.

“H’aanit, did you hear that?”

Straining her ear, the huntress picked up on a distant sound. Were she in the woods, she would have expected a dying animal, but these moans were...disturbingly human. And terrifyingly familiar.

Without a word, she tossed Albus’ corpse aside and sprinted at full force back into the manor, Linde close at her heels. H’aanit felt her vision blur as she ran, faster than she ever had before. Something was wrong, and as she wrenched open the door to the study they’d confronted Albus in, her heart hit the floor.

Primrose was always beautiful, but not now. The dancer was lying on the ground, her hands clutched around her bare stomach. A thick red stream oozed forth from an open wound, coating those beautiful bangles H’aanit knew she adored so much and pooling onto the carpet.

“Primrose!” It was less a shout and more a bellow, a sound pulled from the deepest reaches of H’aanit’s gut. She skidded to her knees, ignoring the rug tearing at her flesh as she approached her bleeding friend. “Speaketh to me!”

Her eyes were tightly closed, pushing back the tears that so few had seen. Her entire face was scrunched with the effort of trying to keep the pain at bay. There was an audible shriek as Ophilia entered the room, wide-eyed and frantically grasping at her staff.

“Hang on, Primrose!” the cleric pleaded, already starting to sweat from the mix of terror and effort as she channeled her most powerful healing into the fallen dancer. H’aanit waited for her to rise, for Aelfric’s soft light to restore her beloved as it so often had, but Primrose didn’t seem to heal. She weakly raised her head and slowly shook it.

“Ophilia?” H’aanit asked, her voice trembling.

“This...this is all I have...Primrose, please!” begged Ophilia.

“...Not your fault.”

The voice was weak and quiet, with none of Prim’s typical wit or warmth. For a moment, H’aanit refused to believe it belonged to her.

“Poisoned...can’t...see.”

Calloused hands carefully lifted Prim’s head as H’aanit slid closer, her knees slick with her lover’s blood. “I am here, dear Primrose. So is Ophilia, please, stayen with us!” She couldn’t shake the feeling that the room seemed to be spinning, vomit crawling up her throat and tears blurring her vision. The blood trickling from Prim’s stomach wouldn’t stop, despite Ophilia’s healing on the wound. Why wasn’t it working? Why wasn’t she coming back? She could hear the beginning of Ophilia’s sobs and the purrs coming from Linde as she slunk between the cleric’s legs. But that was all background noise, mere static compared to the way each of Prim’s harried breaths reverberated in her skull.

Were they getting weaker?

“H’aanit?” Primrose rasped. The huntress leaned closer, pressing her ear near to Primrose’s lips. Normally the feeling of Prim’s breath so close would have delighted her, but fear’s icy grip kept any of those positive feelings far at bay.

“Simeon...he’s the third…Everhold...”

Simeon. The silver-haired poet who had greeted them in Noblecourt. His face had brought Primrose so much joy, and H’aanit’s heart had leapt when she learned that there was someone from her past who still cared so much. Primrose deserved happiness, and while her new family certainly did all they could to provide it, a familiar face's appearance had felt like a gift from the gods. Something to remind all of them that fate may finally be taking a break from torturing Primrose Azelhart.

But fate was cruel, and the gods weren’t listening.

Primrose’s breaths grew shorter. H’aanit could still feel the soothing warmth of Ophilia’s healing magic, but it dawned on her that time was running out. The feeling was like claws digging into her spine.

“Primrose...Prim…”

She ran her fingers lightly along the curves of her cheek. Slowly, Primrose smiled. 

“At least...I won’t go alone. Do you think my father...will still want to see me? I couldn’t-”

H’aanit cut her off, trying to keep her voice steady so Primrose wouldn’t be able to tell she was weeping. “I knowen he will. Thou hast done so much. He shall see that his daughter was a hero.”

Prim scoffed, or at least tried to, before a wince shot across her face. “H’aanit? It hurts.”

H’aanit cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Ophilia kneeling on the floor, her skin pale and her grip on the staff weak. The Cleric was finally utterly drained, her sobs quieted to limp gasps. Linde crawled over and settled next to Primrose, resting her snout beneath the dancer’s shaking hand. Finally, H’aanit leaned in, tears dripping into the pool of blood below.

“Resteth, Primrose. Thou hast fought long enough.”

Against the cold stone floor, Primrose breathed for the last time.

Never again would she smile, or dance, or run her soft fingertips through H’aanit’s hair and coo over how lovely she was. Never again would she stand aside her friends and lend her strength to their adventures, offer to buy a round of drinks at the tavern, or kiss H’aanit’s cheek on a frigid night.

Because Primrose Azelhart was dead.

A hot mixture of rage and despair clashed and bubbled in H’aanit’s chest as she rose, her knees quaking and her fists clenched. She surged forward and wrapped her hands around a decorative vase, imagining it was Simeon’s neck before hurling it to the floor with a feral shout.

Simeon.

Her fists found the mirror and drove into it, leaving them slick with the blood of both herself and her beloved dancer.

Everhold.

She could barely hear Ophilia’s pleas for her to stop as she tore across the room, frantically crushing everything she could get her hands on, the sheer thought of the silver-haired man’s smile haunting her every step.

It hurts.

“What the hell is going on?”

Therion’s voice brought H’aanit to her senses, and she watched as the thief entered the doorframe, his eyes going wide at the sight of the destruction she had wrought, and then the horror that dawned on him when he saw the corpse in the center of the room.

“No. She can’t be.” Therion’s eyes frantically swung between his companions. “She’s not...who could have…”

The thief vomited. The cleric shook. The huntress fumed, swearing a silent oath.

She would enjoy ripping the black heart out of Simeon’s chest.

There were no bystanders on the Noblecourt streets when the three travelers emerged from the manor, Prim’s limp form swaddled in H’aanit’s arms. They made their way silently to the inn, leaving Ophilia to knock at the door. H’aanit could hear the faint sound of revelry behind it, and braced herself to deliver the news.

“I’ve got it!” Cyrus called from within. The beaming professor opened the door. “All finished? Expertly done, I’m sure-”

For once, even the silver-tongued scholar was speechless, left to simply gawk in horror at his friend’s lifeless remains. 

Olberic swore, his stoic demeanor shattered. He had once again been unable to protect.

Alfyn drank himself to sleep, damning himself for not being there. His restless dreams were full of blood.

Tressa tried to stay strong, flitting between her companions with words of comfort and support until her legs gave out, leaving her to weep quietly on the floor.

Ophilia spent the night in communion with Aelfric, caught between beseeching the gods to care for her friend’s soul and cursing them for stealing yet another loved one away.

Therion left, skulking out of the inn in a rage, restlessly combing the sleeping town for any sign of Simeon.

H’aanit didn’t let go of the corpse, of Primrose, until morning.

She was buried next to her father, though it was of little solace to anyone. The impromptu funeral was small, attended only by the companions the dancer left behind, Revello, and his family. 

H’aanit tried not to think about the fact that, aside from the maid they had met in Stillsnow, these were perhaps the only people left who knew or cared that Primrose Azelhart had lived and died. The blissful days of adventure and companionship that served as a brief reprieve from Prim’s painful existence had come to a tragic end.

Each of her companions had words to say, heartfelt eulogies of their most beloved memories with a fallen friend, but H’aanit could not hear them. Simeon was still out there, somewhere, still holding the knife that had stolen her love away. She could only hear the mockery in his voice, the honey-coated lies and the cruel taunts that must have been whispered over a bleeding body. In her mind’s eye, she had already leapt onto his chest and snapped his neck with her bare hands.

“H’aanit.”

Olberic’s voice roused her.

“Is there anything you’d like to say?”

Suddenly, all eyes were on her, but H’aanit’s were locked on the gap in their group’s familiar formation.

“It’s understandable if you don’t wish to give a eulogy. None of us would fault you.” Cyrus said.

H’aanit could feel Ophilia’s palm lightly pressing against her back, a gesture of solidarity in such a trying time, and a reminder that none of them were suffering alone. H’aanit nodded.

“Thanken thee, Olberic. I shall speak.” She cleared her throat and faced the gravestone. “I doth not do so often, so I apologizen for mine weakness with words.” Ophilia’s touch drew closer.

“Primrose hath fought for all of us. She was brave, kind, thoughtful, and...Primrose...mine friends...she was...” H’aanit was stuttering, unable to continue. She felt her knees give out as she sunk to the ground, unable to cry because she had no tears left.

The group stayed in front of the grave for the remainder of the day, sharing stories and tears, but H’aanit’s focus never wavered.

She would hunt Primrose’s murderer. 

And then she would slaughter him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cartwheels back into a fic months later* OOPS

Everhold was a city of stone and steel, and it weighed poorly on H’aanit’s soul of wood and soil. She felt trapped, alone, despite the presence of Linde and her six dearest friends.

Six. The number weighed heavily on H’aanit’s mind, latching onto memories and dripping venom into her thoughts. The images of Primrose in her head were marred now. She tried to recall the woman she adored, imagine the way her gentle arms would fold around her in a warm embrace, but as the specter of Prim pulled back, she left a trail of blood on H’aanit’s stomach.

A very real hand clapped onto her shoulder, a jolt that banished her imagination. Alfyn walked in stride beside her, offering a consoling nod and a weak smile. None of them were comfortable in the silence, but the alternative was discussing their mission, and that seemed even more dire. Olberic, ever dutiful, finally spoke.

“Therion, are you certain he’s there?”

Olberic pointed towards a massive slate building on the horizon, jutting severely over the rest of the city. Therion nodded, pulling his scarf below his mouth.

“He is. I’d bet my life on it.” Therion’s words were terse. 

“Little over the top, don’t you think?” Tressa murmured. “Cocky bastard.”

H’aanit slammed her eyes shut, noting the way her companions were dancing around saying the name of their quarry. She had no such inclination.

“Simeon’s theatrics are but a ruse. Sugarspun words and crafty tricks shall not turn mine bow from his heart.”

The huntress’ words lingered in the air for a few moments, and the conversation was over. A nervous quiet hung over the companions for the remainder of their journey to the theater. That was a common occurence now, the loss of Primrose like a hole ripped through the heart of their little traveling band.

A small band of armed guards stood before the entrance to Everhold’s grand theater, the first signs of life the group had encountered within the sleeping city, held in an almost supernatural quiet.

“Heads up. Lackeys.” Therion muttered. “I’ll stalk around the side a bit, see if I can-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, interrupted by Linde’s ferocious roar as she rushed forward like a missile, leaping into the air and pouncing on the nearest thug. His scream was cut short as the leopard sunk her teeth into his throat.

“H’aanit, wait!” Ophilia gasped, but she was too late. The huntress was in pursuit of her beast, axe drawn and hefted over her head. 

“Cover her!” Olberic shouted, but H’aanit didn’t hear. She was focused on her prey, panicking to draw their weapons and backing away from the blood-soaked muzzle of Linde. 

There were four.

She brought the axe down, hard, feeling a chilly satisfaction as its target went limp.

Three.

A blade came down to her right, but H’aanit knew it was coming. She swerved, putting the body of the fallen thug between herself and his attacking ally. He faltered, and she struck, crushing his skull with the flat of her weapon. He toppled to the ground, the life already gone from his body.

Two.

The remaining pair of guards backed away, the stench of fear filling the air as they raised trembling blades against H’aanit. She had never taken joy in harming a wounded animal, in all her days as a hunter, abiding fiercely by the aim of causing as little pain as possible to her innocent quarry.

These men, however, were not innocent.

She loosed an arrow through the neck of the furthest guard, while Linde tore at the throat of his partner. By the time her allies had reached her side, H’aanit stood alone, the bloodstained weapons of the guards lying in a pile at her feet.

“That was reckless.” Cyrus said with a scowl, glaring at H’aanit. “You should have waited for our assistance.” The huntress stalked onwards, stepping over the carnage with her eyes locked on the towering theater ahead. Cyrus bristled, another objection on his lips, but Olberic’s hand clapped firmly on his shoulder. Looking sadly at his companion, the knight shook his head, and Cyrus acquiesced. The group continued forward, stepping into the shadows of Simeon’s lair.

No further resistance awaited them as they entered the great theater. Great stone grotesques jutted from the balconies inside, their inhuman expressions locked in silent screams. In the seats below, an array of figures sat with rapt attention on the stage, bare save for a jumble of blankets at its center.

Silently, Therion crept close to the audience, dagger at the ready. Approaching the first seat, he raised it to strike, only to jerk backwards, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

“Puppets.”

Upon closer inspection, the ruse was revealed. Each and every audience member was a wooden puppet, posed carefully to stare up at the stage before them. With a muffled curse, Alfyn quickly backpedaled.

“Uh, Olberic? You oughta see this.”

As the group followed Alfyn’s gaze, the cause of his distress was made plain. Sitting in the chair nearest him was a puppet with dark brown hair, dressed in a blue knight’s robe with a wooden blade resting at its side. 

A gaping hole sat in its chest.

“Hmph.” Arms crossed, Olberic scowled. “A vile jest.”

A yelp from Tressa and a series of gasps confirmed the rest of the groups’ fears. Each of them were somewhere in the audience, immortalized in wooden effigy and stricken with mock fatal injuries. For a moment, the atmosphere grew icy cold as a lingering question rose to all of their minds.

As if to answer, a spotlight sparked to life above the great proscenium stage, and the dark linens upon it were whisked away by an unseen force. There, lying upon the floor with a hole in its chest, was a wooden Primrose, pain carved on her face.

_H’aanit, it hurts._

“Welcome, my friends, to the most wonderful show!” 

A swirl of darkness emanated from the theater’s rear as the great wooden doors slammed shut, a deafening crash echoing through the chamber. 

“So eager to watch! So burning with purpose! So hurried to die!”

The torches set into the walls flickered with an unholy sheen, a violet miasma wafting throughout the room that made the hairs on Ophilia’s neck stand on end.

“So then, let us craft an epilogue worthy of song!”

As the swirling dark reached the stage, it coalesced, forming the shape of a slight man, silver hair tumbling down his back as he stood above the wooden remains.

“Oh, poor Primrose Azelhart!” Simeon grinned wide, arms spread before his lifeless audience. “A pitiful life cut so tragically short! A tale without-”

“SIMEON!” H’aanit’s cry was guttural, cracking the air with fury. 

“Silence in the audience!” With a wave of his hand, Simeon’s simulacrums sprung to life. Wooden hands grabbed at H’aanit’s extremities, a hoard of puppets clawing to hold her back from her weapons. A yowl alerted her to Linde in the same situation, scrabbling her claws against the floor as a well-dressed mannequin clutched her in its grasp.

“Release us, cretin!”

Olberic’s deep baritone boomed down the aisles and onto the stage, but Simeon paid it no mind. He simply stood, chin held in one hand as he surveyed his trapped foes. H’aanit could feel her gut churn as his eyes fell on her, the ghost of a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Why, what a twist! How could I have been so blind! What could add more to this story than that finest of heartaches, a lost love!”

With every bit of strength inside her, H’aanit thrashed against the puppets, hearing them splinter as she smashed their limbs with her struggling. More and more crawled from the surrounding seats, their joints creaking as they scrabbled over the chairs to latch onto their quarry. Simeon chuckled, his voice lower than usual as he threw his head back and gazed into the oncoming light.

“Alas, foolish huntress, your heart chose poorly. But fear not, H’aanit, trust in me.” As his gaze returned to H’aanit, Simeon flashed a wicked smile.

“You’ll find someone much better.”

Wrenching her hand through the pile of broken wood, grasping a chunk of debris, H’aanit roared as she hurled a piece of puppet hand directly at the sorcerer on stage. 

“Augh!” Simeon recoiled as the wooden chunk made contact, clutching his forehead as blood began to trickle between his fingers. The sorcerer swiftly recovered, tendrils of dark energy trailing from his fingertips “Insolent!” he hissed, but the brief lapse in his mystic concentration was all that Simeon’s foes required. The sound of splintering wood filled the theater.

Bounding down the aisle, ponytail nearly taut behind her, H’aanit charged Simeon with murder in her eyes. She leapt onto the stage, axe quickly drawn as she stalked towards her prey.

“Thine games are at an end, foul one.” Her breaths came in quick, ragged bursts, mouth turned into a snarl. The theater had exploded into battle, the newly freed allies beginning to rip the oncoming puppets apart. Despite the chaos, she remained focused on Simeon, taking in every inch of the sneering manipulator.

_”Woulden that mine arrows could pierce time itself, so that I couldst sever the tragedy from thee.”_

_She had muttered it one night at camp, sitting alone with Primrose before a crackling fire, and proceeded to immediately regret it. It had seemed romantic, deep in the recesses of her mind, but she supposed the drink Alfyn had offered her earlier had more to do with that than any sense of logic or poetry. The dancer burst into a smile, unable to contain the giggles that bubbled forth from her chest._

_“My. Rather more dramatic than usual, dear.”_

_As an uncommon flush rose to H’aanit’s face, a still snickering Prim sidled up closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders._

_“But I appreciate it. And the past is what it is. I’ll make amends for it, but I know I can’t change it.”_

_She planted a light peck on the huntress’s cheek._

_“A future with you is what I wish for.” _

The attack was more instinct than anything else. Before she could fully reason it, H’aanit dove at Simeon, her axe clattering to the floor as she dug her fingers into his shoulders, slamming the sorcerer to the wooden floor. He attempted to raise an arm in a casting motion, but H’aanit clamped down, hard, wrenching his upper arm until she could hear a pop. Simeon didn’t scream, his eyes wide with laughter as he stared up at his attacker, even as his other arm was broken in much the same way.

“What are you doing, H’aanit? Do you think this will bring dear Primrose back?”

Wordlessly, she stood, walking to the fallen axe and hefting it once more. With a sickening _thud_ it was buried in Simeon’s side. Blood splattered onto H’aanit’s hands, a gentle dampness that dripped onto the stage below. Finally, Simeon seemed to have cracked, a grimace of pain on his face as his eyes darted to the hatchet blade jutting out of his skin. The huntress knelt beside him, ensuring he had no choice but to see her face above the wound. 

Somewhere, behind the theatrics and the tricks and the cruelty, obscured by years of duplicity and manipulation, H’aanit’s expert eyes could spy a raw emotion in the Master Crow’s wavering stare.

Fear.

“‘Tis only the beginning.” she whispered. Rising to her full height, H’aanit nocked an arrow, aiming it at one of Simeon’s legs. “We shall see when I tire of this sport.”

Simeon grit his teeth in defiance, but before H’aanit could loose her shot, a firm hand dragged her backwards, sending the arrow clattering to the floor.

“Stop it! This ain’t you!”

Alfyn was staring at her, the rest of her companions not far behind. A trail of carnage waited behind the group, Simeon’s puppets slashed or burned or pierced upon the floor. Alfyn’s fingers were pale white, and his face was taut in an expression of horror.

Ignoring him, she got back into position, nocking another arrow and taking aim once more.

“H’aanit, what the hell?”

She could feel Therion’s light fingers wrap around her waist, but a quick shunt to the side took the exhausted thief’s legs out from under him. Her head was full of images of Primrose, leaning under a tree in the sweltering Sunshade afternoon, whittling at a bit of bark with a blade, kissing her lightly on the lips behind an Atlasdam fountain, cheering loudly for Olberic in the stands of a grand coliseum, and lying motionless on the floor, life snuffed out too soon.

“It matters not what you do to me.”

Simeon’s voice was weak, coming in strained gasps, but his tone remained lofty and condescending. He met H’aanit’s eyes and smiled.

“I’ve already won.”

A searing beam of light erupted from behind H’aanit, streaking past her shoulder and burning itself into Simeon’s chest. As the sorcerer’s eyes closed for the final time, H’aanit whirled on her heel, glaring at a trembling Ophilia. Her robes were torn and her hair drenched in sweat, but there was an eerie calmness to the cleric, even as the full force of H’aanit’s ire bore down upon her.

“You wouldst deny me this?”

She snarled and stepped closer, noting out of the corner of her eye the way Olberic’s hand twitched on the hilt of his weapon. Ophilia gave no ground, staring up with a resolute grimace on her face.

“I will not lose you too.”

The theater was finally silent, no sound but the heavy breaths of the survivors upon the stage. Slowly, H’aanit lowered her bow to the floor, feeling as if a thousand weights had suddenly strapped themselves to their limbs. The strain left her nearly unable to move, and the huntress dropped to her knees. Tears freely flowed from her eyes, her hands balled into pained fists. She could feel a familiar warmth as Ophilia embraced her, the cleric’s tears starting to stain her shoulders. Slowly, H’aanit felt more and more of her allies surround her, each of them wrapping their arms around the others as she began to sob.

They stood as seven, weeping for a companion who would never return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional notes at the end of the next chapter!


	3. Epilogue

Like any town, Noblecourt has its share of legends. Stories of hidden treasures or wild beasts waiting just beneath the schoolhouse floorboards or the rear of the church. Perhaps the most recent, though, is that of the Silent Visitor.

Legend has it that one night a year, when the leaves begin to turn color and fall, a tall cloaked woman arrives in the town. She walks silently, from the forest entrance to the commoner’s district all the way to the noble quarter, a feline monster at her side.

The guards do not stop the woman. Some say the mayor of the city itself demands her safe passage, while others claim it is the High Flamekeeper herself that grants her immunity to the law’s impediment.

Her path takes her to a small corner of the graveyard, where two stones rest near a marble wall. One of them is meant for the former head of a forgotten noble house, the other’s entombed a mystery. It is this grave that the Visitor stops in front of.

She wraps a chain of woven flowers around the grave, turns around, and departs back into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I'd like to apologize for the several month gap between the first part of this story and the end. I wanted to finish this project, and I'm glad I was able to return to it this month.
> 
> I hadn't written anything depressing in too long, I guess? I do enjoy tragedy, though, so I decided to step out of my comfort zone for this story. I think it came out alright, but I apologize if the prose is purpler than a can of grape juice in the filthy mitts of Grimace from McDonalds.
> 
> anyway i love prim and h'aanit and all their pals and I will personally beat simeon up with a club
> 
> Feedback is very welcome, and I hope you enjoyed the fic. Stay safe out there, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

**Author's Note:**

> oricalle: i've been consumed by edelgard angst long enough i'm going back to my dear octopath faves  
also oricalle: haha what if you killed them  
oricalle: :,)
> 
> hey do you guys think i might have a "Powerful Women With Tragic Backstories" problem?
> 
> This is a scene I've wanted to rewrite in some way since playing the game, because Simeon stabbing Primrose is one of the most emotional sequences in the game, but it's also honestly kind of hilarious.
> 
> WHERE WAS EVERYONE? I get gameplay/story segregation but the story does acknowledge the other characters are there in stories like Therion's. Did they just...not notice? Are Tressa and Ophilia just playing cards on Prim's bleeding body?


End file.
